Don't Get Lost Out There
by ScotchandChocolate
Summary: Sarah meets Seth. Will be a multi chapter fic.


**There's a lot of static around what happened with Seth, so this is my attempt to figure it out.**

**Erm. Sarah is eighteen. **

**Warning: Drug usage. If it offends your self-of-order or whatever, move on.**

**This will be a multi-chapter. **

**I own nothing and nobody.**

**Rating: T, possibly M-ish bits later.**

Another drop. Ding dong. Drops of amber-looking liquid were pouring themselves down pasty coloured chins of middle aged men. Men who, despite surely knowing that they hadn't a chance in hell with her, were leering deliriously and half-drunkenly at the girl behind the bar. She would ask them what else they wanted, aware that most of the time, the response would be some fucking joke about wanting her panties. At eighteen, the underage barmaid would glare in response, not really giving the drunken jackasses the time of day. Instead, she would stand in a corner, keeping one eye trained on the barstools near her, the other on whatever book she happened to be reading. Her soundtrack, except for the usual heavy rock, shitty band that usually played, was the drips and drops of beer glasses, scotch glasses and the like.

Sarah had stumbled upon this job with surprise, and did not really expect to be there that long. What she expected, in some abstract way, was for her art to pay off. She had already become the apple of her mother's eye in that respect; she was the fellow artist, giving mother and daughter bonding material. They would sit together, reading books about surrealism and arguing because Camille preferred more traditional Cubism and Sarah was an Andy Warhol fanatic. But, she hadn't applied to art school. It would be a waste of time, was the general consensus (or really, just Sarah herself. Adam had been at the University of San Fransisco for two years already, garnering more ammo for his reputation as the perfect one in the family), but she didn't want to become another person doing the same thing, repeating the same life process as every other person. It all seemed so…trivial. She had realized that art school can't make you a better artist, it just makes you a more informed artist…a more technically-aspired version of the same artist you would be if you _didn't _attend art school.

So, left with no college alternative, Sarah had used her fake ID to get a job as a bartender. Her parents didn't know, of course; they thought she was working as a sales assistant in a 24-hour Walmart close by. But it gave her money. Not a lot, but enough to sustain a savings account that went towards affording her own apartment. The leering old men didn't seem such a huge price to pay.

On this one September night, as the clock neared midnight, a change was heard. Julian, Sarah's superior, was on stage introducing a new, up-and-coming band to the stage. She looked up from the whisky sour she was pouring for the eightieth time that evening, seeing a small group of early twenty-somethings taking the stage. They were stereotypical band types; long haired, dark, brooding Lou Reed-lookalikes with longer hair. Apart from the frontman. He was brown haired; attractive, in a sort of _he will never meet my parents _kind of way. He was scruffy, and had a voice like a golden-haired eagle, completely unreal. It reminded her of something raspy yet smooth, and she wanted to curl up inside his voice. But she got the feeling she would die there; just living inside his voice.

They started with some generic covers that every band in its adolescence would inevitably convey, and Sarah chuckled as they stumbled through _Freebird. _Luckily, they swiftly moved onto original material that had an overt feeling of _it's not quite there yet, _but she could tell that they were talented. The frontman once again caught her attention, and she smiled that smile that usually got her any man she desired, directing it toward the stage, grinning internally as he acknowledged her and tilted his head toward her as he sang. Yes. This was one thing Sarah had been good at since her first kiss at eleven. Guys. She could easily lose herself in a guy; usually to the detriment of her studies or family concerns.

As they neared the end of their set forty five minutes later, Sarah moved, in a somewhat weird kind of trance. She knew she wanted to meet this guy, if only for a good screw then fine. She walked past tables of older men she _knew _were staring at her ass as she moved past, opening the old, red dusty door to the tiny backstage room.

She wasn't too surprised at what she walked in to; the band were lining up cocaine on a CD, rolling up three or four dollar bills. The guy she recognized as the frontman looked up as she entered, holding up his left hand in a half-wave.

"Hey there, bar wench."

"Hey. You guys were pretty awesome. I just wanted to, er, come and tell you that."

Chuckling, he replied.

"Yeah, I guess. You, er, want a drink? I know. Totally stupid thing to ask a bartender when you are sitting in her bar, right?"

"Uh, sure."

"Beer?"

"Fine"

He handed her the beer, and she winced slightly as she felt the cool perspiration of the glass bottle against her hand. He sat on one of the stained, old leather sofas, motioning for her to sit next to him. She noticed then that the other band members were all engaged in an intense debate, and chose to ignore them.

"So where do you guys usually play? It was your first time here tonight, right?"

"Yeah. We're just getting it together, you know? It's tough, though, trying to get these manager assholes to see that you're more than just another shitty band practising in a garage."

She laughed, holding out her hand, smiling _that _smile again.

"Sarah."

He grinned back, grasping her hand with a rough, thick-textured firm grip.

"Seth. So, Sarah. Tell me. What's your damage. What do you do, apart from selling alcohol to old bastards?"

Laughing, she replied that "I don't know. Really. It sounds strange, but I don't really do anything else. I, er, wanted to be an artist, but it doesn't seem to be working out."

"Don't say that. You're what, nineteen, twenty?" He smiled in that way that made it easy for her to see that he was hot for her; he was hitting on her.

"Yeah. But it's all so trivial, you know? It's like so trivial. All of it. Wow. I sound really dumb, huh?"

"No. You're beautiful." He looked at her intently, clearly trying to gage how he was doing.

She gazed back with a suddenly sombre expression, locking her clear blue eyes onto his and silently asking him _do you really think so? Prove it._

He looked away, grabbing some weed, papers, filter and tobacco.

"Mellow courage?"

"Yeah, please." _I'm not supposed to do this anymore. _Sarah had been caught numerous times over her adolescence smoking pot, and had come to dinner one night high on crystal meth. She had made a somewhat loose vow to herself recently not to do any drugs any more. But, she supposed, it was just once.

He handed her a rolled joint, grabbing a lighter. It was an intimate moment; she held the joint between her lips as he moved his hand close, lightly letting one hand rest on her bare knee as he lit up the joint for her. She breathed in, feeling the taste move down her throat, feeling at peace.

"So what...kind of art do you do? Like...landscapes and shit?"

She laughed, enjoying him.

"God no. It's like...I don't know. Sometimes I get these ideas, and I just...end up with a drawing or something." She took a drag, feeling more at ease. Sarah took a large gulp of her second beer, enjoying the tingling feeling she always got from beer at the tips of her fingers.

"That's cool. I'd love to see something. I like art. It's...arty." He laughed softly, and she joined in, not really seeing what was funny but wanting to laugh nonetheless. He paused suddenly, seeming to want to say something. He leaned in closer to her.

"Don't hate me, but I kinda don't really get art. It's not my thing."

She laughed at his self-consciousness.

"No. I don't hate you." She leaned closer. "I'm just gonna shoot you."

His laugh was loud, disturbing her for some reason.

"Well okay then."

She stopped giggling then, reaching for her beer.

"So you should let me know when you're playing next. You know..I'll come"

He smiled, replying that he didn't know - they took the gigs as they came, but had been talking to a small record label.

"That's great. So in like ten years, you'll be famous."

"And you'll be like a remake of one of Warhol's factory girls." _He knows something about art after all._

"Yeah, then I can die of anorexia, or drugs, or both, like Edie Sedgwick."

"Don't die. And don't stop eating; you're hot as you are."

Sarah smiled, seeing the swarmy-ness hiding a softness. She felt like sharing herself with him; sharing more than sex. She reached behind her to her large, brown bag, and pulled out a purple sketchbook. She slowly and somewhat shyly opened to a page with a newer drawing on it, handing it to him with little hesitance. _Take at least one risk before you die._

She watched as he stared for a moment or two, taking in the white doves impeccably drawn in thick black pencil, next to bright stars, a blue and purple swirling vortex behind it. It reminded him of a world dissimilated; drawn and quartered, a world of something _more _than what he usually encountered.

"You're amazing, you know. You see things. Like unreal. It's fucking amazing."

She smiled, unused to praise, not knowing what to say, or even if she wanted to say anything.

She handed the paper-rolled weed over to him, watching as he took a drag before silently moving his face towards hers. Suddenly, he was kissing her. _Really _kissing her. There was nothing soft about it; it was hard, hot, and made her want more. His tongue duelled with hers briefly before he pulled back, smiling, red-faced, eyes glassy, and she moved forward, grabbing his lips with hers again, completely oblivious to the three other men in the room, seemingly used to watching their frontman make out with some nameless girl.

**Ah, I'm tired. Chapter two tomorrow. Reviews are food. Tasty food.**


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